Spider Jones was making his final ascent.
The intern looked up, and his eyes met the reporter’s grim gaze. For a second or two, the young man appeared startled, as if Hox had somehow spooked him. But as they neared one another at the staircase’s midpoint, Spider’s dark-skinned face broke into a broad smile of recognition.
Accustomed to false familiarity from strangers, Hox had merely grunted his acknowledgment. The momentary distraction caused him to stub his left toe on the next step, and a shooting stab of pain coursed through his body.
Cursing, the reporter hurried down the rest of the stairs and rapidly exited the building, eager to get home to a hot soaking bath.
As the memory concluded, Hox heard Spider’s fading footsteps continue up toward the ceremonial rotunda where, only moments later, he would meet his gruesome end.
• • •
THE FRONT LEGS of the chair slammed against the floor as Hox returned to the dog-eared papers and files.
He whacked his hand against the table, still haunted by the nagging intuition that he was missing something, some detail or nuance that could be critical to solving the case. He reached for his mug and drained the last gulp of stale coffee.
His face skewed up, the response more from the next image that flashed into his head than the bitter taste of the brew.
The crime scene was far more vivid in Hox’s memory than the brief passing on the stairway.
• • •
HOX WAS HALFWAY home when the newspaper’s dispatch operator reached him on his cell phone and relayed the news of the City Hall murder. (The reporter had ignored the operator’s call minutes earlier about the albino alligator being found at Mountain Lake.) Immediately reversing course, Hox had tuned into the police scanner for more details.
Upon his return to City Hall, Hox gave his initial statement. He then convinced the lead detective to let him view the crime scene at the top of the marble staircase. It was against department regulations, but he was accustomed to navigating around such barriers. Reluctantly, the detective escorted him up the steps and past the yellow and black police tape.
The technicians had just finished processing the evidence. The body had been zippered up into a plastic bag and carried off to the morgue for autopsy.
What remained, however, conveyed a gruesome tale.
A pool of blood had dried to the marble surface, the sticky red coating marred by the imprint of the body and the handprints where the young man had struggled to drag himself across the slick floor.
Red spurts were spattered across the surrounding infrastructure. Hox turned a slow circle, surveying the carnage on the stone walls, the rounded columns, and the brass light fixtures. A few drops dotted the base of the third-story balcony overlooking the rotunda.
Grimly, Hox returned his gaze to floor level. Another spray had hit the Harvey Milk bust, leaving a gory graffiti across the statue’s wide grin.
• • •
“SPIDER JONES,” HOX said, leaning over the conference room table, his eyes desperately scanning the piles of papers and files. “Who did this to you? And why?”
A loud banging thumped against the door. With a testy sigh, the reporter swiveled in his chair. The harried producer from the newspaper’s sister television network glared through the glass window mounted into the door’s upper half.
Apparently he had blown off one too many of the woman’s calls, and she had appeared in person to drag him out of the conference room.
Reluctantly, he scooted his chair away from the table. He couldn’t keep ignoring his regular reporting duties.
Spider Jones would have to wait a little while longer for his murder to be solved.
Chapter 10
A WHISPER IN THE RAIN
AS THE DOOR swung shut behind Hoxton Finn, the latch to a window overlooking the street began to rattle ever so gently in its fittings. A few short jerks released the handle, and the pane cracked open.
Something less than substance, a whisper through the rain, entered through the two-inch gap and floated into the room.
The spirit circled the conference table, stopping at the far end to poke curiously through the trash can filled with discarded takeout containers.
A loud sniffing could be heard, accompanied by a strong intake of air. The moist vapors funneled together, as if pouring into an empty vessel, gradually tracing the faint outline of a young man wearing a baseball cap, blue jeans, and high-top canvas sneakers.
Spider Jones—or, at least, a spectral version of the former intern—bent wistfully over the half-empty food containers, slowly moving from one carton to the next. He lingered the longest over a square paper box holding the remnants of a spicy kung pao chicken dish that had been seasoned with extra garlic.
After an extensive smelling session, the spirit exhaled, breathing out a sigh of disappointment as the thin edges of his form faded to a blur.
Leaving the trash can, Spider turned his attention to the piles of documents spread across the table. He bent over the collected materials, shifting stacks of paper and fluttering loose pages as he perused the information.
His manner was one of diligent but pragmatic interest—until he reached a file labeled “Crime Scene Photos.”
Spider fiddled nervously with the brim of his cap; then his hand reached out for the file. His fingers wavered in the air, hesitating, before he flipped open the cover and began skimming through the contents.
There were numerous close-up shots of blood spatter and wide-angle views of the ceremonial rotunda taken from almost every possible vantage point. The pictures were shocking, both viewed individually and as a group; the exhaustive folio conveyed the carnage of the scene.
But it was the pictures of the victim that caused Spider to draw in a sharp breath, once more crystallizing the outline of his ghostly figure.
The body splayed across the marble floor was almost unrecognizable. His dark skin had turned an ashy gray; his glassy eyes stared out from a stiff, frozen face.
Subconsciously, Spider reached for his stomach as he studied the gaping knife wounds that had drained the life from his body. He recalled the force of the first stunning blow, ripping into his chest, and a shiver ran across his narrow shoulders.
As if energized by a renewed sense of urgency, he turned to a notepad containing the reporter’s handwritten notes. He focused intently on the scribbling, reading through page after page. But as he digested the material, the expression on his face grew increasingly dissatisfied.
There was something missing from the reporter’s notes, an important piece of critical information, an image that had been resonating at the forefront of Spider’s mind from the moment he appeared in Jackson Square earlier that morning.
Picking up the reporter’s pencil, Spider drew out a symbol on the notepaper—a scrawling letter O.
Then his translucent figure slowly dissipated, vanishing from sight.
There was a slight woosh of air as his spirit slipped through the open window and back into the rainy streets of San Francisco.
The Nose
Chapter 11
A NOSE IS A NOSE . . .
OSCAR’S NIECE STOOD inside the third-floor bathroom of the apartment above the Green Vase, staring at her reflection in the mirror mounted over the sink.
In preparation for her daily jog, she had put on warm leggings and a long-sleeved mesh shirt. Her tangled brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she had just completed several lunging stretches, loosening her leg muscles.
Ever since the aborted portrait session, she had tried to resist the urge to look at her nose. She had purposely avoided making eye contact with any reflected image. No good could come of it, she’d told herself forcefully.
But as she’d passed the bathroom on her way downstairs, she’d caught a glimpse of her face in the glass. Despite her firm resolve, she couldn’t help stopping inside.
That was twenty minutes ago.
Rationally, she knew Monty’s earlier statem
ents about facial features had nothing to do with her. The comments had been in reference to the murdered intern who had inexplicably taken her place in the picture.
Likely, Monty had never even noticed the bump on the middle of her nose. He tended to be rather self-absorbed. And despite his constant prying, he always seemed more interested in the cats than their owner.
That was fine with the niece. She would have been disturbed, she thought with a shudder, if he suddenly shifted his focus solely onto her.
Nevertheless, the comment had struck a nerve.
She tilted her head first one way, and then another, self-consciously examining her face. The connecting bridge of her eyeglass frames did a decent job of masking the lump in the cartilage. It was barely discernible from this angle.
Apprehensively, she removed the glasses and leaned closer toward the mirror.
It was a regular enough shape, she assured herself . . . perhaps a little off center. Not the ideal nose, but not grotesquely out of whack.
Pushing herself away from the sink, she slid her glasses back on, trying not to notice the upward lift as the frames settled on the bump.
So what if she had an odd-shaped nose, she thought indignantly. What did she care? And who was Monty to criticize—with that narrow chin and those goofy green eyes? She could tell him a thing or two about funny-looking facial features.
She paused and once more leaned toward the mirror, squinting at the reflected image.
“Hmm . . .”
• • •
ISABELLA SAT ON the edge of the bathroom sink, watching the niece’s self-conscious nose analysis with curious fascination.
The cat had never experienced such insecurities. She had always been supremely confident in her appearance. After all, it was only fitting that the royal head of the household possessed a splendid beauty.
Isabella turned her gaze to the short fuzzy reflection in the mirror. She noted with approval the moist pink pad in the center of her pixielike face. The soft cushion was perfectly aligned, midway between her ice-blue eyes.
It must be difficult to be a human, she thought sympathetically, what with all that exposed skin. And those flattened ears, squashed up against the side of her head—no wonder the woman had a hard time understanding the cat’s complicated language. How could the niece hear anything with such malformed structures?
As for the nose . . . well, there was no getting around it. In the cat’s view, that was an inherently awkward appendage.
Isabella looked up at her person and prepared to issue her advice. Allowing for the fact that the niece was human and, consequently, would never be as beautiful as a cat, the guidance was tempered with a dose of practical realism.
The tone of the comment wasn’t nearly as comforting as the niece would have liked. In fact, it sounded somewhat dubious.
“Mrao.”
• • •
WITH A WIDE yawn, Rupert took a seat on the bathroom floor beside his igloo-shaped litter box. His wobbly eyes crossed as he contemplated the intricacies of human versus feline nasal function and design, but he came up with nothing to contribute to the discussion. Being an experienced male member of the animal species, he wisely offered no opinion on the relative attractiveness of either nose shape.
All of this talk about noses was, however, making him hungry. Of course, the discussion of any topic was likely to make him hungry at ten thirty in the morning.
It had been more than three hours since breakfast, and he’d burned a lot of calories in the intervening period, what with his extensive picture posing, the long cuddling session in his person’s lap, and lastly, the activity that had consumed the greatest amount of energy, sleeping.
He poked his fluffy tail up into the air, kinking the tip slightly to the left, and began hopping down the stairs toward the kitchen.
It was a clear signal that he assumed his person would understand. At this point in their relationship, he reasoned, she should be well versed in the routine.
It was time for his morning snack.
• • •
MOMENTS LATER, RUPERT reached the second floor and bounded into the kitchen, his stomach rumbling as he neared his food bowl.
His was a tempered enthusiasm, as he was only expecting dry cat food. For the last two months, he had tried to be accommodating and to not complain too much about the quality of the provisions. After all, it was impossible for his person to obtain the good stuff, what with Oscar gone and Lick’s fried chicken joint closed.
Fried chicken, Rupert thought, swooning at the passing mention of his favorite dish. He paused, one paw hovering in the air, overwhelmed by the memory.
Those delectable pieces of meat were still the focal point of his dreams. He often woke to find drool dribbling down his chin. It had been a very disappointing Thanksgiving and Christmas for the poultry-obsessed cat.
Nevertheless, Rupert remained hopeful that the chicken chef and his collection of cast-iron skillets would soon reappear. Until then, he would have to make do with his regular gruel.
• • •
NOW EVEN HUNGRIER than before, Rupert plopped in front of his empty food bowl and waited for his person to appear.
He cocked his head, listening for the sound of human footsteps following him down the stairs.
Nothing. The apartment was unusually quiet.
The niece must not have noticed him leaving the bathroom, Rupert thought. She had been awfully obsessed with her nose. Perhaps she’d missed his signal.
Or maybe she’d forgotten what time it was. He shook his head, a gesture of utter incomprehension. How could she not remember something as important as his morning snack?
Rupert opened his mouth and let loose a plaintive howl, one that sounded as if he hadn’t eaten for days and was rapidly nearing the end of his sad, pitiful life.
Then he paused and listened again.
Still nothing.
He peered up at the ceiling, perplexed. Summoning his vocal reserves, he took in a deep breath and repeated the request at an amplified volume, a call that clearly communicated he was a cat on the very edge of starvation.
There, he thought with relieved satisfaction as he heard the woman begin her descent. Finally, she got the message.
He looked up with anticipation as the niece entered the kitchen.
Her face bore an apologetic expression—appropriate, he reasoned, for someone who had been so derelict in her cat-attending duties.
“So, uh, Rupert,” the niece said as she approached the pantry where she kept the cat food. “I noticed you’ve put on some extra weight lately.”
Extra weight, Rupert thought, looking frantically down at his plump stomach. What extra weight? I don’t see any extra weight.
The niece opened the pantry door and took out a plastic container, different than the one that held his regular dry food.
“You just finished off a bag of your old stuff, so I thought we might try some of this new brand to see if it helps you out . . .”
“We might try.” Rupert puzzled at the phrase as he switched his gaze back to his person. What do you mean we? Since when have you been eating my cat food?
“It’s a low-fat formulation,” she said informatively. “To help you with your diet.”
Diet? The dreaded word echoed inside Rupert’s head. In the entire human vocabulary, there were few words more foul.
He watched suspiciously as the niece carried the plastic container to his bowl. Bending, she dribbled a small amount of the new food into the bottom of the dish.
Rupert dropped his head for a tentative sniff.
The brown particles carried a strange, off-putting smell.
Cautiously, he picked up a single kibble and gummed it in his mouth. After a brief taste, he spit it out onto the tile floor. Then he looked up at his person with disgust.
Skewing his face into a disdainful expression, he concentrated his contempt into a single retaliatory thought.
You really should do something abou
t that nose of yours.
• • •
TRYING NOT TO worry about Rupert’s negative reaction to the diet cat food, the niece laced up her running shoes, zipped her rain jacket, and headed to the first floor.
Isabella joined her person by the front door, supervising the last clothing preparations. From her perch on the cashier counter, she watched as the niece secured the lock and set off on her route.
The cat was about to return upstairs to investigate Rupert’s new cat food when she noticed a movement across the street.
She stared through the rainy window, thoughtfully contemplating as Spider Jones’s ghostly presence floated out of the art studio and jogged after the niece.
The Previous Mayor
Chapter 12
REGRETS
A BLUE AND black taxi pulled up outside San Francisco’s City Hall, disgorging a dark-skinned man in a trench coat, tailored suit, and two-toned leather wing tips. As the city’s Previous Mayor climbed out onto the curb, he placed a gloved hand over the felt bowler balanced on his head, anchoring the hat from a sudden gust of rain.
Out of elected office for almost a decade, the Previous Mayor still exerted powerful leverage within local political circles. He was an obligatory invite to any public ceremonies, a sought-after guest for dinner parties, and a must-have attendee at new restaurant openings.
Standing on the sidewalk, he glanced up at the second-floor balcony to the mayor’s office suite. In a few days’ time, he would officially become the previous Previous Mayor. He thought of the monogram-based code language used by Oscar and his underground Bohemians, who referred to him as the PM.
They would have to give him another P, he thought wryly.
• • •
THE PM SHIFTED his grip from his hat to the handrail as he mounted the short flight of steps leading to City Hall’s front entrance.
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